Moira
by Hatsuka
Summary: Formerly a oneshot called 'Runaway'. But... It kind of grew, so now it's Moira's story, pretty much but not religiously following what the books say. Re-rated to T for mild violence, language and implied suicide.
1. Running Away

**NB: I do not own Wicked Lovely or any of the characters. Melissa Marr owns the neighbourhood, I'm just playing in the metaphorical back garden. Enjoy!**

-x-

I walk slowly through the forest, drinking it all in and wishing I could feel calm enough to at least enjoy my surroundings. I can no longer clearly remember how many days it has been since I left my house and everything I owned and just walked from the city.

Running away, if I'm truly honest with myself.

Not that I can tell anyone what I'm running from. They'd never believe me.

The thought of them sets my heart racing, like it does every time and, like always, I bitterly resent the sway they hold over every part of my life. I stop walking and tip my head back, breathing deeply and gazing up at the trees. As I do, I feel my pulse slow a little again. The forest is a constant, reassuring reminder that I am safer here than anywhere else. Surprisingly, they seem to prefer the cities.

The forest itself is a geographical... what, exactly? The word would be _aberration_, but it doesn't fit here. Not with this ancient, beautiful place. A labyrinthine oasis of virgin rainforest shouldn't exist here, just a little way out of Huntsdale, but it does.

And I am grateful. It's my refuge. I am calm – well, calm_er_ than usual, and safe in the knowledge that they won't come here. I don't see how people can't understand why this forest exists – it's steeped in, _alive_ with an ancient, powerful magic that seems to work against Theirs. I stop again in a little clearing, feeling my heels sink into the mossy ground. I inhale deeply, and I can almost taste the tang of the earth and the rich, spicy smell of sunlight on the forest. I can hear running water up ahead and I follow the noise – I'm thirsty, and I brought nothing with me from the city.

It leads me into another clearing, and I realise it is one of the countless hot springs that feeds the forest. It splashes into the clearing on one side, tumbles down a few moss-covered boulders and into a small pool before disappearing underground again. Spears of sunlight pierce the steam curling lazily up to join the humid air, and I gaze, bewitched. It's beautiful. Everywhere is green, emeralds dipped in the golden honey of the late afternoon sun. I feel lit from within, restored by the forest.

But then my fragile peace is shattered by a silvery laugh, singing through the trees, carried by the unmistakeable, fluttering disturbance of beating wings.

My mind blindly tries to reject the obvious.

No.

They can't be here.

Why would they be?

Maybe I imagined it.

This can't be happening.

Impossible.

Then a horrifying thought strikes me and I frantically start counting backwards. Counting the days.

But I know before I get there what day it is.

Midsummer's Eve.

The night of the year when the Fey are at their most powerful.

The one night when they're strong enough to come here.

How could I have been so blind, to come here now? In the city, at least the iron weakens them but here, tonight, they are unfettered and terrifyingly powerful.

I reel away blindly, panic rising up and curling around my mind, stopping me thinking. If they find me, I probably won't make it through the night. My only option is to hide.

I sink down against a tree, trying to stop myself hyperventilating.

I close my eyes. I can hear my heart, fluttering like the wings of the bird I saw them kill once, for no crime other than existing.

I will have to hide here until morning and hope that my time isn't up yet, that they won't find me.

Right. That's what I'll do–

My eyes snap open and my brain shuts down as an icy wash of utter terror shoots through my veins.

There, less than a metre away from me, is the Summer King.

Not as cruel as the dark court Fey, but I feared the Summer King even more, for entirely different reasons.

Because the Summer King had tried to talk to me before.

I'd refused, and fled to the safety of iron places, iron things.

I didn't know what he wanted from me.

But now, he had all the power.

He smiles. It's a beautiful smile and I want nothing more than to cling to him, never let him go, but 17 years of watching the Fey, their cruelty, the way you can never judge by appearances and their twisted 'sense of humour' hadn't been for nothing.

I don't trust him.

Not now, not ever.

He reaches out a hand to brush my cheek and I try not to flinch away. Better not to anger him. Maybe he'll lose interest.

Yeah, right.

He smiles again at my reaction and I feel warmer. But no, I have to concentrate.

'Moira, isn't it?' he whispers, those eyes boring into mine.

He knows my name.

Oh my God, he knows my name.

What else does he know?

-x-

**Well, that was my first ever fanfic! Well, first that I've uploaded, anyway, **

***celebratory dance***

**Ahem.**

**Hope you enjoyed. Please review! Pretty please?**


	2. Talking to Faeries

**NB: I do not own Wicked Lovely or any of the characters. Melissa Marr owns the neighbourhood, I'm just playing in the metaphorical back garden. Enjoy!**

**Sorry it took me so long to write this… You can blame these damn exams ********.**

-x-

He laughs deceptively softly. 'Don't worry,' he murmurs, placing a deceptively gentle hand on my cheek. 'I won't hurt you,' he says, and for a terrifying moment I almost believe him. My mouth is dry and it's so much harder than it should be to speak, with my heart pounding so loudly I'm sure he can hear it.

'You're lying,' I manage to croak, wincing at how appallingly, pathetically _weak_ I sound. He smiles properly this time, and it's dazzling. He shouldn't be so beautiful. It isn't fair. Any other girl would be falling over herself to do whatever he wanted, but it's here that I have an advantage. I've watched the Fey for seventeen years, and I know them, their cruelty, their lies, their sick games.

'Moira,' he says so softly it's barely louder than a breath, lower and quieter than my frantically pounding heart. Every last nerve is screaming at me to run. 'My beautiful, fiery Moira. So brave, so strong. You know I would never hurt you.'

I slump backwards against the tree, focusing on the rough bark scratching my neck. I close my eyes. I need a few seconds to pull myself together, and that's not going to happen if I can see him. The way he'd spoken to me made me worry that he'd been watching me. But that was ridiculous. The Fey play tricks on humans they happen to pass in the streets, but one of the Fey – especially him, not only of the Court Fey but the Summer King - actually following a human on more than a momentary whim? It was unheard of, impossible. I tell myself I'm just being paranoid. But what if he _was_? There'd be nothing I could do.

Suddenly, I can't take another second. I am literally at breaking point: fight or flight. I have no choice, no conscious thought as I leap up, ignoring my screaming muscles and scraped skin, and I run. Some small rational part of my brain knows how easily he could outrun me, but I run anyway. It was better than doing nothing. I fly blindly though the forest, seeing nothing but a blurred screen of solid green foliage in my absolute panic, feeling each branch that snags on my clothes as a hand, reaching out to stop me, pull me back. I carry on running, faster than I ever have before, with that speed that comes only from utter terror, something only your deepest, last-resort protective instincts and unlock. I can hear him calling me, and while my brain is making my body run, my heart is begging it to turn around, to go back to him.

Several minutes later, I stumble to a graceless halt. I have made it to the edge of the forest, and the pinky-gold dawn light is already spreading across the sky, heaven after all that green. Dawn light? Surely I hadn't been in the forest all night. Strange, but I was beyond questioning anything connected to the Fey. I know better than most people in this world that magic _does_ exist. I lean over, resting my hands on my knees, gasping for breath. I should be so much fitter than I am. Joining a gym might be a lifesaving investment if anything like this happened again. Again?! My brain was babbling while my body rested, and it was scaring me. I might not _survive _something like this again. I'd been lucky enough this time. Speaking of which… The Summer King had let me go. Just like that. I know he could have caught up with me. So why hadn't he? I'm grateful, but puzzled. Damn him, messing with my head like this. Damn all of them! I groan involuntarily, pulling myself up. I have a long walk back to the city. I look back sadly at the forest. After last night, I won't be going there again.

As I walk, I think. The Summer King had certainly said some strange things, and the words, the phrases they made up, like stars in constellations, are burnt into my memory, the sentences chanted over and over so often already that they have lost all meaning and become nothing more than words.

_I won't hurt you_

_Beautiful, fiery Moira_

_Never hurt you_

_Brave_

_Beautiful_

_Moira_

Beautiful. He called me beautiful. I shake my head, disgusted. The Summer Court are as bad as the Dark Court. Worse, because at least the Dark Court make no secret of their evil. What's unsettling me more than anything else that happened is one little word: _My_. I can't help remembering: _My beautiful, fiery Moira. _The word is everything I don't want but can't get rid of: Possession by the Fey. I shake myself. I realised a long time ago that I'll never get any sympathy from normal people. I groan again, trying to stretch away from the stitch in my side, gritting my teeth, but I don't stop. I've got a long walk and a lot to try not to think about.

-x-

**So, that was chapter 2. Enjoy? You can thank Le Soleil for requesting that I carry on with this story :3! Please review, etc.**


	3. Fragments

**NB: I do not own Wicked Lovely or any of the characters. Melissa Marr owns the neighbourhood, I'm just playing in the metaphorical back garden. Enjoy! I'm quite pleased with how this is coming along, but without requests to carry on with it, it would never have got this far. So, the rest of this story (I don't know yet how much that will be) is dedicated to everyone who wanted me to finish it.**

-x-

I slam the door shut behind me, knowing that it affords me little protection, but I do it anyway. The streets were mercifully free of the Fey as I walked back through Huntsdale, back to my house. Of course they were; all of the Fey were in the forest. As I'd walked back, my abject terror had set and hardened into anger. How dare the Fey do this to me? I wrench open a cupboard, snatch out a glass and slam it shut again. Are they punishing me for being able to see them? I didn't _ask_ for this! Do they honestly think that, given the choice, I wouldn't give up the Sight in a heartbeat? It was always bad, but now this! I don't want their attention, and especially not _his_! Why should I have to be a part of their stupid games?!

I scream, first in anger and frustration, then pain as I look down to realise I've squeezed the glass so tightly between my white-knuckled hands that it's shattered, cutting my fingers and showering the cheap tiles on the floor with deceptively pretty pieces – crystal shards, twisting the light from the bare bulb and throwing it out again across the room. I snarl like an animal, gritting my teeth as I pull one of the shards out of my palm and throw it to the ground so violently it shatters into even smaller pieces. Gazing at the spider's web of ruby slices on my hands, I laugh bitterly. Story of my life, really. Falling to smaller and smaller pieces, powerless to do anything at all and ending up hurting people as well as being hurt myself. I slump against the smooth, cool wood panels of the door of the cupboard under the sink, still laughing mirthlessly to myself.

Some time later – I don't know how long – I drag myself up. The blood from the cuts has run, gloving my hands in red. I look like Lady Macbeth. I don't want to move, I want to give up on everything, but I know I have to do something. Mechanically, not thinking or feeling, I clean and bandage my hands. I notice, in a vague, detached way, that they don't hurt as much as they should. In fact – I look more closely at them – they almost look like they're already healing. Goddamn Fey. I'd bet my bottom dollar that this is their fault. After all, everything else is. I realise, as I reach for the dustpan and brush to sweep up the bits of glass on the floor, that all the fight has gone out of me. I just feel… tired. I don't want to play their games any more, but I can't just quit. That would be letting them win. And, as lethargic as I feel, I'm not ready to wave my white flag yet.

Later again, having eaten and drunk, I am relieved to feel better. I'm so nearly back to normal that I can even drum up some decent hatred for the Fey, which reassures me. But this has to end. Even I can feel something inching closer to breaking point, which leaves me in no doubt that they can too. This can't go on forever. Hiding, trying to avoid them, clearly isn't any kind of option. Or at least, it hasn't worked out so well until now. So, clearly, I need a different set of tactics. I drop the fork I've been toying with onto the Formica table top, accepting that the pasta is stone cold, and - as I'd somehow forgotten to put salt in the water or put any sauce on it – now even nastier than it had been when it was cold, I am never going to finish it. Have you ever tried to eat with your hands bandaged? No? Well, it's difficult. I balance my glass on my plate and heft the whole lot into the sink, wrestling with the stiff hot water tap. Finally, I manage to extract a frustratingly useless trickle of water from it before the tap itself snaps off in my hand. I groan, wondering when I'll be able to get someone to fix it, and that's when something in me just… snaps. If this was a game, I wasn't going to play anymore. Next time the Summer King approached me, I'd be ready. I was going to have it out with him, once and for all. I was going to tell him – with an iron crowbar if I had to – to leave me alone, or tell me what he wanted and just have done with it all.

Feeling buoyed up and uncommonly brave, I set about washing up with only cold water with gusto. And I settle down to wait. I can feel something – my hope? – sparking inside me, filling me with warmth.

-x-

**Enjoy that? Please tell me what you thought. Call me on inconsistency if you want, but I made a bit of an effort to make Moira… what's the word? A more likeable, easier-to-read narrator. More chapters to come soon… probably. Ideas and suggestions welcome!**

**P.S. Good luck also appreciated… rather nervous about introducing Keenan in the next chapter -.-**


	4. Confrontation

**NB: I do not own Wicked Lovely or any of the characters. Melissa Marr owns the neighbourhood, I'm just playing in the metaphorical back garden. Enjoy!**

-x-

I've been expecting him, almost waiting for him, but the sight of him still sends adrenaline – fear and, Gods forgive me, excitement – scorching through my veins. I'm horrified by how blasé I've become – My rules, the ones I've spent my whole life living by are in smithereens.

It's rather exciting.

But now I have another reason to get rid of him, to be as free as I can from the Fey: My baby. Already, I love her more than anything, so much it scares me. For her sake, I have to get out of this.

So I walk over to him – it's an odd sense of role-reversal. He's smiling, the bastard; smiling after everything he's done. The street is oddly empty for this time of afternoon. Suddenly, all my positivity vanishes, like air out of a balloon, and it leaves behind it the habitual loathing for the Fey, as well worn and natural as an old, faithful pair of shoes. I stalk towards him, glaring. He's going to be sorry. He's going to regret this, if it's the last thing I do.

Gods, he's beautiful, though.

'Moira,' he says, smiling, like I've made his freaking day by just existing. I hate him, I hate him.

'You,' I snap, not wasting any pleasantries on him, 'Are going to stop.' I poke him in the chest, too angry to care about the risks. 'Right now.' Poke. 'You're going to leave me alone.' Poke. 'Me and my baby.' Poke. 'And you're going to start _right now_.' I step forwards, determined to get my message across. I am pleased to see him flinch backwards, but I suspect that was due more to the iron crucifix around my neck than my evil eye. He smiles, but sadly. The bastard. No one so evil should look so beautiful. It's not fair, not _right_. I shake myself, remembering that he's one of the Fey; wrong and perverse by nature.

'Moira,' he says again, and I scowl.

'Go on, then,' I say, deliberately bolshy and pugnacious, antagonising him. 'Let's hear your excuse.'

'I _can't_ leave you alone. Surely you can sense that? It's too late; we're connected now. Bonded.' His eyes are sad, and I want so badly to believe him.

I tell him, simply and succinctly, where he can shove his _bonds_.

He laughs. Laughs at me, when I'm being perfectly serious! He shakes his head, still grinning that deliciously, terrifyingly wicked crooked grin. Wicked Lovely.

'That's what I love about you,' he says, his voice suddenly low and husky, on the cusp of a laugh and indecently tempting. 'You've got such a _spark_.'

All I can do for a moment is splutter incoherently at the sheer inappropriateness of this. Whatever happened to common manners? I thought even the Fey knew that when someone is halfway through cussing you out, you _don't start coming onto them_!

I was angry before. Now I'm apoplectic, hopping mad, furious. I manage a minute of solid invective before I run out of breath, and I'm pleased to see that this time he doesn't look so amused. Time he knew what he was dealing with.

'One day, Moira, you'll understand.'

'And I wouldn't today?'

A derisive snort. 'No.'

'You'd be surprised what I'd understand.'

A snigger this time, but cold and mirthless.

'No, I wouldn't.'

With that parting shot, he turns away, the slanting afternoon sunlight glinting on his copper-wire hair. I can't bear that he got the last word, but there was something dark and forbidding, like summer storm clouds, in his eyes as he turned away that makes me think better of it. He's frustrated, though, and I know that with the same gut certainty that makes me sure I haven't heard the last of this. There's a girl with him, I notice. I hadn't seen her before; presumably I'd been too preoccupied with Keenan. She is Fey too; invisible while he wears a human glamour. I frown. I've never seen one like her before. She looks Winter Court, but acts like a solitary. She is pale, corpse-coloured, with icy-blue lips and white hair. Steam hisses when she walks too close to him, and she is laughing. I hear her speak with a hard, mocking but oddly musical voice, like hailstones on icicles:

'You'll have a hard time convincing that one, Keenan.'

Call me paranoid, but that's nothing if not ominous. Something tells me that, however much I want him to be, he's not finished with me yet.

-x-

**Hope you enjoyed… Review and I'll give you a cookie and your choice of Seth, Niall or Irial on the side!**


	5. Drinking with the Enemy

**NB: I do not own Wicked Lovely or any of the characters. Melissa Marr owns the neighbourhood, I'm just playing in the metaphorical back garden. Enjoy!**

-x-

I blink slightly stupidly at him. I was at home, minding my own business, enjoying not having to worry about invisible faeries, as happy as I ever am, thank you very much. And then he just shows up on my doorstep and – poof! Did you see that? It was my good day, flying off. How dare he just… show up like that? And, rather more worryingly, how does he even know where I live?!

'What are _you _doing here?' I snap with my rudeness and tactlessness that I reserve especially for him. I have to dig pretty deep to find it, but he's worth it. No use in encouraging him. Somehow – don't ask me how – he finds the nerve to look affronted.

'Moira, it wouldn't hurt to say hello. And you're acting like I'd have come for some other reason than to make you happy.'

Unbe-bloody-lievable. To _make me happy_. What a load. Not once has he done anything that's made me even _slightly_ happy.

'Really? So you've come to tell me that you've decided to leave me alone, starting right now? Because that's the only thing you could say that would make me happy right now. And do you people just come barging in like this a lot? Don't you have any kind of social code at all?' I'd unleashed several months worth of irritation there, and, boy, was it an awesome torrent of petulance. He looks at me slightly oddly, the wind taken out of his heartbreakingly attractive sails.

'"You people"? What d'you mean?'

I roll my eyes. I've got things to do and no time to deal with him today. I only meant that I'd expected Court Fey to have at least some basic manners. Maybe they do and, being human, I don't qualify for them.

'Never mind. And you're dodging the question. What. Are. You. Doing. Here?' I emphasise the last words, tapping the iron screwdriver I was using to fix the one of the chairs against the doorframe with each one, in what I sincerely hope is a menacing way.

He smiles at me then. Gods, what a smile. I feel hopelessly disadvantaged, like I'm trying to fight a rhino with a toothpick.

'You might be surprised to hear that I came to try to convince you to relax a bit. To make you have some fun.'

'Really? Not just to make me like you?'

He shakes his head, copper hair glinting, strange gold eyes sparkling mischievously. This is ridiculous. He's almost magnetic; I pity the girls who can't see what he really is. Now, _they_ really haven't got a chance. I notice that I haven't invited him in – a cardinal sin, incredibly rude to anyone else. But, not at all to my surprise, I don't feel the least bit guilty.

'You're so cynical.'

'So it's not?'

Another smile, this one crooked, inviting, tempting.

'Well, maybe just a little bit. But I promise, come with me today and I'll never talk to you again if you don't want me to. My treat.'

I consider this. As long as we stay in the city, I'm pretty safe. He won't make me go anywhere I don't want to; for whatever disgusting reason he really does seem to want me to like him. But that promise – peace at last – is more tempting than him. No, I shouldn't do this. It's not safe. Oh, but to finally be rid of him… It's too much. I can't pass this up. For better or worse, this has to end before I go mad.

'Fine,' I say, with a feeling of dread settling on my shoulders like snow falling off a tree branch. 'But after today, you leave me alone. And we stay in the city.'

He grins properly this time, lighting up the dingy hall, like nothing could have made me happier. If he'd been a human, I almost could have fallen for him. What?! What the hell was I _thinking_? I was going to have to be more careful. He reaches out to take my arm and I let him, thinking that a few weeks ago I never would have even considered this. I pick up my keys and then go for the door, but he gets there first. We walk out together into the sunlit street, me trying not to be seen and him sauntering proudly, like he's with the most beautiful woman in the world and he wants everyone to know it. He could do wonders for any girl's self-esteem.

'So,' I say chattily, determined to catch him off guard and curious in spite of myself, 'who was the girl you were with after we… spoke the other day?'

Spoke is one way to put it. He'd tried to come onto me, I'd cussed him out and he'd stropped off when I didn't buy the bull he was trying to get me to believe. Don't say I don't summarise for you. He tipped his head to one side, his beautiful face set into an expression of innocent puzzlement.

'A girl? No, you must be thinking of someone else.'

Right. Must be one of the other Summer Kings I know.

'Besides,' he says, trying to smooth things over by melting my heart with an almost indecently passionate look, 'You know there's only you.'

I roll my eyes at him, for the second time that day. I'm going to get eye strain at this rate. At least then I wouldn't be able to see the Fey–

_Oh_. That's when it hits me. Right there.

_He doesn't know I can see the Fey_.

This _is_ going to be fun.


	6. Revelation

**NB: I do not own Wicked Lovely or any of the characters. Melissa Marr owns the neighbourhood, I'm just playing in the metaphorical back garden. Enjoy!**

-x-

As another wave of the pain washes over me, I try to struggle into a standing position, but I fail pathetically and slump down again. Damn him! We'd gone out together. We'd walked around the city, through the park. He'd bought me a drink when we stopped in a pub. Then he'd dropped me off at my house and announced, despite my repeated, forceful and unrepeatable assurances to the contrary, that he was sure he'd see me again soon. I'd slammed the door in his face.

Then it had all gone wrong.

I can feel it every time he takes another step away from me. Each one brings another stinging jolt of ice-cold pain with it. He'd been gone less than half an hour, but I was getting what felt like withdrawal symptoms. I hated his worthless guts, but I'd felt… warm. Warm and safe when I was with him. Which obviously made no sense at all. Given the chance, I'd have cursed him to the seventh circle of hell and back again. Twice. Then again for good measure if I was really, really angry. But today… I'm so sure anymore. He'd been almost sweet. In a duplicitous, lying bastard kind of way.

And now he'd left and I'm in the kind of pain that all the morphine in the world won't fix. I don't think for a moment that he put something in my drink – this feels wrong, otherworldly and distinctly Fey-induced. I spit out something unprintable and reach for the phone. It's no good; I have to ask him what the hell he's done to me and how to get rid of it. If I leave the inevitable any later, I won't be able to string a coherent sentence together to hurl abuse at him when he gets here.

I find the number he's put on my phone and press the call button so violently my nail splits the rubber.

I don't care.

I don't care about anything, except making this stop, _stop_, STOP!

He picks up the phone.

'Hello?'

'Keenan!' I snarl, my teeth gritted. 'Get over here, right now!'

'Moira! What's the matter?' He sounds so concerned, almost panicked, and that's what gets me. I descend into uncontrollable, hacking sobs.

'I don't… know… I don't know… Ahh, Keenan! It hurts… Help me!'

'Don't move. I'll be there as soon as I can.'

He sounds tense, worried, and I could hear the car engine roaring into life before he'd even hung up. The phone drops out of my hand, and just before everything goes black, I have one last irrational thought:

Keenan is coming now. Everything will be ok.

Then I scream as pain racks my body again and the dark covers my eyes.

I wake up screaming too, as the ghost of the pain dissolves into the air. Then I realise that it doesn't hurt any more. Gingerly, I open my eyes. I'm in my bed, fully dressed, with the duvet twisted into disarray around me.

Keenan is here. That, for some inexplicable reason, makes me feel better. He is holding my hand, his other hand on my forehead. His hands are so warm, I want to stay there forever.

'Keenan,' I croak, wincing. My throat hurts from all the screaming. 'What happened?'

'I think I know,' he says, his expression torn between grim and elated. 'I misjudged how far this has gone.'

'This? What's _this_ supposed to be? Some kind of stupid faery thing? Because I tell you right now, I don't want it. I don't want… _any_ of it!' I manage to snap forcefully before I start coughing alarmingly.

He looks at me, shocked speechless.

Then I remember he didn't know I can see the Fey.

Oops.

'You… you _see_ us?'

I nod wearily. I'm not scared of him at all now. 'Always have. I can't get away from it.'

'So, you knew I was…'

'Fey? From the minute I first saw you.'

He tips his head back, but I can see his look of dawning comprehension.

'_Oh_. That's why you hated me so much.'

'I hate all of you.'

He looks hurt, and, to my horror, I feel bad. 'Even me?' he says, almost whispering. He looks heartbroken. I relent, just a little bit.

'Well, maybe I don't hate you anymore.'

'And that's why you were in the forest.'

'Yeah. I had to get out of here. Stupid mistake, I miscounted the days. I never meant to be there on Midsummer's.'

'That's how you knew Don was there.'

'The girl? Yes.'

'Maybe that's why all this is happening so quickly.'

That reminds me. What's he talking about? I don't want this. I never wanted this, I never will. It isn't fair.

My litany. But I don't think I have a choice. I mean, I get withdrawal symptoms when he leaves. That's never, ever good.

'What _is _this? Keenan, what's happening to me?'

He takes a deep breath.

And he tells me everything.


	7. The End

**NB: I do not own Wicked Lovely or any of the characters. Melissa Marr owns the neighbourhood, I'm just playing in the metaphorical back garden. Enjoy! **

**P.S. Try reading the last section while listening to Dominant by Emilie Autumn. But have some Kleenex handy.**

-x-

I look at him.

I keep looking.

No.

Oh my God, no.

This is some kind of cruel trick.

It must be.

NO! I won't do this!

He won't make me.

He can't.

I won't let him.

Oh, I'm scared, I'm scared.

I'm only 17.

My baby.

I can't do this.

God, help me! Someone!

I'm scared.

I replay his words in my mind, wondering if I missed something, wondering if maybe everything will be ok after all.

_Summer Queen.  
Mine.  
Court Fey.  
Eternity.  
Bound.  
Choice.  
Danger.  
Need.  
Your Fey.  
Please.  
For me.  
Your baby too.  
It'll be alright._

That last one is the one. The straw that breaks the camel's back. The bubble bursts.

'It'll be _alright?_' I scream, hysterical, panicked, my voice shrill enough to break windows. 'It'll be _ALRIGHT?_ How is any of this even _remotely_ alright?! You never asked me if I wanted this! And now I have to go and be some kind of _QUEEN?_ For the Fey? For you of all people?! I won't! You'll never make me!'

I collapse back onto the bed, sobbing without tears, rough, hacking sobs from the bottom of my stomach. My mind spins in panicked circles like a Catherine wheel come loose from its fencepost. That's how I feel: Adrift in a world too big, too scary, too much for me. No moorings or directions. Panic, fear, every way I look. I feel an arm around my shoulders.

'Moira, don't be scared. You were born to do this. You'll be perfect. The best Queen the Summer Court ever had. I'm here for you. _You'll be amazing._'

I throw his arm off. I'm furious now, brimful of icy rage. I can feel the flames burning in my own eyes where I never could before. A mark of what he's done to me. _Bastard_. I can't believe I almost liked him. Can't believe I trusted him, laughed with him, while he was doing this to me. Stealing my mortality away with every second that passed. Leaving me with his changeling – the eternity I don't want, won't accept.

I straighten, suddenly glacier-calm and still.

'I'll think about it,' I say archly. My voice rings oddly, wrongly in my ears. It's not mine, not me, some strange, manufactured faery Queen Moira. Not me. She's taking my identity, just like he did. I'll never be the girl next door again. He took that from me. Everything that separated me from my sworn enemies – mortality, humanity, impermanence, compassion – all gone.

It's all sinking in now.

'I'll talk to you soon,' I say. The words appear in my head and a stranger thought springs into being in my mind: Maybe this other Moira, the faery Queen, the me-but-not-me doesn't want this either. Maybe she doesn't want to have to exist by taking this from me. I can feel her in my head, feeding me the words to say, the way to act to escape. 'I'll tell you what I've decided.'

Relief. He looks relieved. He thought he could just _get away with this_?! That almost pushes me over the edge again. For a split second, I want nothing more than to lash out with fists, arms, teeth, nails – anything for some way, any way, to hurt him. But the me-but-not-me holds me in check. Sshh, remember, she chides. Calm down if you want to escape. You can't hurt him like that.

'Now, please leave,' I say with the regal dignity of the me-but-not-me. Mine-but-not-mine. Hers. I know without asking that if I don't escape, I'll just fade until it's only her left, a changeling in an empty shell. But she'll help me get out. I know she will. After all, she's me and I'm her.

Something – maybe Keenan hears her in my voice and realises he can't argue – makes him turn and leave. I wait impatiently for the latch to click shut, my tension heightening my senses. Or maybe it's her. I don't know or care. All I can feel is the corrosive, purple-black hatred casting a shadow over every facet of my life.

All I know is that I have only one choice. I feel the pain starting to build as he walks away, but I'm strong enough to control it now. It won't – _he_ won't – beat me again. I know I have to do the only thing I can do – I'll have to last word on my freedom. I'm making one last grand gesture. It won't be forgotten. Coolly, methodically, I start to think. First and foremost: My baby. A few short weeks – nothing at all on a forced eternity and she'll be born. More than anything, I wish I could get to know her as she grows up. That will be the only tragedy. It seems suddenly wonderful to me; this new person. Half me, half someone else. I wonder for a fleeting moment if my half of her will be all me or if some of the me-but-not-me will be there as well. I shake my head; I don't have time for this. If I can hold Keenan – the worthless bastard, I hate him more than I ever did – off until then, I'm free. I'll have won my freedom.

I settle down to wait. Not long left.

It is some time later. I have had my baby, my beautiful Aislynn. The daughter I will never know. The waiting has been unbearable. I can't stay here. I've always been wrong for this world. Making me even more certain of my decision is me-but-not-me. She's grown inside me like Ash did. She's strong enough to control me, change my path if she wanted to, but this is my body. She respects that. She won't act against me to save herself. I thank her for that. She accepts her fate as I accept mine.

I'm ready.

I've been getting ready for this. I am perfectly calm as I walk through the woods, back to the spot where I met Keenan on Midsummer's.

It seems right. I want him to know it was his fault.

I've left Ash with my mother. I've said my goodbyes.

I've chosen my path from this world. It doesn't matter to me what I use to get my freedom. It's just another way to cut the laces of life. Me-but-not-me is sad and scared, but trying not to show it. She'll let me die if I want to, but she wants to live. She'd make a good queen. I wish I could give her that.

I kneel, pulling out the gun.

Just for a minute, sadness ghosts over my soul. Mourning for a life I might have known. All the world I'll never see, poisoned by _him_. I want to live, but I can't. I want to be freed into whatever comes after this world, but this isn't my choice.

I see a world coloured by hatred and entrapment. I can't live here. Not while he walks the earth. Hatred. Me and him, bound together for eternity by hate. That eclipses everything else. He lied to me like he lied to all the others. He changed me. He made me what I never wanted to be. I suppose I should always have known I could never truly live with or without the Fey. Which leaves me here.

I shake my head. If I don't do this now, I never will.

I lift up the gun.

This is the end.

-x-

**This is the last chapter of Moira's story – that's the sad thing about a story with an inevitable ending. I'll be sorry to have finished, I really came to like Moira as a character. I'll miss her. She had such a distinctive voice in my head, she as good as wrote herself. Maybe I'll write something else for her after this. Perhaps a songfic with Misery Loves Company by Emilie Autumn. Suggestions welcome!**

**And this wouldn't be complete without a thankyou. Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed and encouraged me to finish this. Really, it wouldn't be here without you.**


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